C h a p t e r | T e n
Present Day - Mikey
"Mikes!" Pete's yelling at his loveliest fixation who's walking further into the distance and away from him. Mikey turns back around, looking straight at Pete past the students leaving the building as school ends. "Sorry, I mean," he pants as he catches up to him, "I didn't mean to call you that, I know you don't like—"
"It's fine, Pete." He shrugs one shoulder carelessly, just relieved to see him. It's like coming home, but a lot better, which is a worrying thought. "I don't mind."
"Where were you today?" Pete asks worriedly.
Mikey only had time to tell Alicia the story of how he met Frank and a few details about his questionable friendships. Alicia promised she wouldn't repeat anything outside of her circle of investigators and police, not even to his parents. What he's most guilty about is the fact that he found himself trusting the Detective, and maybe starting to warm up to her too.
He didn't say anything about Pete. It's a no brainer that he doesn't wish to. At the end of the day, he hopes he can get away with leaving Pete out of this, and besides, what does he really know about the boy anyway? He has no insight into his friendship with Frank other than it seemed like a big waste of time and a mistake. But what if Pete was partially behind the shooting schemes and subsequently is part of the reason that Gerard is gone? Mikey can't bear the thought.
"I went back home," he lies somewhat convincingly, "forgot my money for the cafeteria so I just ate back there." Come to think of it, he hasn't had anything since breakfast but all the lies and truths he's telling combined are making him nauseous and unable to stomach anything.
"You wanna hang?" Pete suggests, noticing how upset the younger boy is.
"God, yes." Mikey sighs in delight, following Pete across the playing fields. Yes, sometimes he wants to hang in all senses of the word.
Once they're outside, Pete huffs nervously, "Mikey - just cut the crap, alright? I saw those police-looking people come up to you and I saw you go with them, with that woman. I'm not mad at you, Mikes, I just want you to be comfortable enough around me to tell the truth."
Run me into a corner, why don't you, thinks Mikey.
"They sort of blackmailed me," he fibs, "and... I mean, it's just me left, isn't it? All the other 'suspects' that drove Frank to do what he did are dead." Which makes it weird that they're already talking about handing out sentences where they're 'due', though he conveniently doesn't mention this. "The cops need someone to pin it on, but they told me that if I could tell them all that I knew and who was involved..." His eyes anxiously meet Pete's, unsure if it's right to be confiding in him with this. "I'd be off the hook."
"You told them about me?" Pete presumes in disappointment.
"No!" Mikey hurries out. "No, I told them about how I meant Frank and my friends. That's it, really. I still felt bad for it even though they're..." He shakes his head. "They want answers for the families, I get that. But they're gonna call me back in soon. I'm scared, Pete."
"You're scared?" Pete puts a tentative hand on Mikey's shoulder with a frown and a soft, understanding voice. "What would make you less scared right now?"
Mikey's still looking into his eyes, wondering about distractions and if they're worth it or if they'll really work. His gaze moves to Pete's lips before he's backing away in denial. He can't do that. He's never felt so conflicted and confused. When he's with Pete, it feels like he's using him to get over the horrors of what happened, and not because he's attracted to him or likes him (though those things are also true).
"I can't," he mumbles, casting his eyes down again. That's all he can seem to do these days - look away from the world that's moving around him.
Pete nods, not wanting to push him too far. Still, he says, "You know you're the light in my life right now."
It's a lot of pressure to put on someone. Mikey dwells on the words and soaks them up and decides, yeah, he could use some light just now himself. He lunges forward and kisses Pete with all his might and emotion, and his heart jumps to life.
In the middle of the kiss, he hears someone clear their throat and he immediately pulls away. Standing by them is one of the men he recognises from the Detective's company, and his concentration is on Pete.
"Pete Wentz?" he asks and Pete nods silently. The man juts his chin to the parking lot. "You're up next for twenty questions if it doesn't bother you."
The dark-haired boy nods, fearing the worst. Even if Mikey hadn't said anything (and he couldn't have mentioned anything too incriminating, since he doesn't know of Pete's involvement in the shooting), he knows he's in trouble. This is a hole he's going to need a lot of strength to dig himself out of.
"Detective Simmons is working Monday," the cop or investigator or whoever he is speaks as Pete starts walking to the parking lot, "do yourself a favour and head over to the station yourself after the weekend. The publicity of getting forcibly picked up doesn't bode well for anyone."
Mikey gets the message loud and clear and agrees. He watches Pete as they get into a cop car and drive away, hoping no-one else has acquired the same sinking feeling he's had for a while now.
He settles for going to check on Joe the goldfish at Pete's house. It's better than going home. He cries.
>
In The Past
Sweat collects at the back of my neck. My parents left me a decent amount of money - not enough to keep their house but enough to get me set up in an apartment of my own. The last of the boxes lie taped up in the corner, filled mostly with their possessions I can't bear to throw away. Pete's helped me move the bigger pieces of furniture and assembled a bed, hung some clothes up in the wardrobe.
My dad's shotgun is in here too. For the longest time, I wanted to sell it or give it away. Plans can change.
"Pete," I say thickly and he stops flattening the cardboard to pay attention to me as I point to the weapon in the corner, "tell me I should get rid of it."
He stares at me then at the gun with confusion. "Yeah, I reckon it'd be worth a pretty penny."
"What if I kept it?" I don't exactly know where I'm getting at - or that's what I tell myself to sleep at night. In reality, I can think of a few good reasons to hang onto it. I wander over to my new bookshelf and pull out a notebook to show him. "I think you should take a look at this."
Maybe I'm showing him this as a cry for help, a desperate plea that he'll read what's inside and tell me it's wrong, take the idea right out of my head. He flips to the first page. "Marcos Black, Alan Brooks, Darren Lee, Leon Simmons, Teri Underwood... Mikey Way? What's this for?"
My therapist suggested I write a secret diary and like I said, I wrote a list: a list of the names of the people I want dead. I let my gaze trail back over to the gun and Pete follows it warily. Then it clicks for him.
"No," he says immediately, "you're not gonna - are you insane?"
"Probably." You've got to be to consider something like this.
"You want to kill them?" He steps closer to me and hands back the notebook with something akin to revulsion. "You know that isn't right, Frank. I get that they hurt you, that you're grieving your parents death and it's a lot to handle for a teenager. But this is never the answer."
"It would be worth it," I whisper, "to me."
"Worth dying over? Because you know you'd never make it out alive."
That's okay, too. "I... I don't think I can be talked out of this now."
There's silence as Pete takes in what I've said and the fact that I've said it to him and only him. He has the ultimate power to stop this, to call the cops and turn me in. The lives of the people on my list are in his hands as much as they are in mine. A million thoughts rush through his head as he struggles to form a sentence.
"I have a thing for Mikey," he admits at last, "could you at least leave him out of this?"
That's all he has to say? So Ray was right all along. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. "Aren't you going to run for the hills?"
Pete shrugs without meeting my hardened eyes. "I guess I should." He goes back to flattening the cardboard to put out as recycling, giving himself an easy distraction from the devastating topic at hand. "When will you do it?"
"I don't know," I answer, "soon."
"And Mikey?"
"You don't know him, Pete," I say, "not like I do." So that's it, then. This is my calling - the fact Pete is choosing not to do anything about it (and that's the most disturbing, amazing fact I've ever heard) means I have the green light to go ahead. I know I shouldn't treat his ability to zip his mouth as permission to kill a group of teenagers but I can't help it; I'm looking for any excuse to justify this.
"You get it, right?" I ask with edge to my voice. "My life has been literal hell lately. Most people get on and agree with their therapists' plan of action, or admit themselves to a crazy house. Maybe I'd be satisfied if I bought a one-way ticket out of this place and did some travelling to clear my head but... I can't. You know why I have to do this."
He says nothing, simply adding to the pile of flattened boxes. I guess I should buy some shells, then.
>
Present Day - Frank
Ray's television has only a couple of stations - some sort of shopping channel and the news, and seeing myself in a box with a shotgun rested on my shoulder, as unnerving as it is, is preferable to watching a couple of old women battling over a figurine of a dog from two centuries ago.
"Last week's high-school shooting is a topic rife within New Jersey and the rest of the States," the anchorman reports, "our hearts go out to the seven people lost during this horrific act of terrorism."
Seven? So, adding to who I killed, another two people died at that scene?
"The one and only positive outlook one could have on the situation is the fact that Frank Iero will not be back..."
How can they prove that?
"... as both himself and Gerard Way were pronounced dead the day of the attack." Footage of the chaos, bullet-holes and spills of blood, flashes across the screen, and body bags are laid out at the front.
"They're saying we're dead?" Gerard gapes and leans forward as if he heard it wrong. "Why?"
"It's probably a lie so the public won't panic about another attack. I mean, it's pretty rare that the shooter survives the shooting and doesn't commit suicide after, so if they said I'm dead, it makes everything easier. As for you," I muse, "maybe Mikey was giving the cops a hard time and they had had enough of lying to him that they'd find you."
They probably concealed our fake 'bodies' to the public eye and told everyone it was too disturbing to see, just so the world doesn't go crazy thinking there's someone still out there. That's possible, right?
Gerard looks worried. "Mikey thinks I'm dead?" It comes out as a question like he still can't believe it.
"I don't imagine he would know what to think." If I was that kid, I'd be worried sick but aware that I couldn't do anything about it. It must be torture for him. Good. I don't feel so good for Gerard though.
"I don't know how you live with yourself. Don't - don't know how you sleep at night."
Not so well.
"He has no-one to look out for him," Gerard huffs, "nothing to hold onto. I wouldn't be surprised if he snapped and did something rash..."
I roll my eyes, knowing he's referring to what I did. "Trust me, you have to be pretty messed up in the head to go that far."
"You took me away from the only thing that kept me going," Gerard sniffs with contempt. It's like he's become invisible to anyone that ever knew him; he doesn't exist if it's being said that he's dead. Maybe I should pretend to feel remorse about it all.
I bite my lip. "I'm sorry."
He gets up in disbelief without looking at me and bites back, "Whatever, Frank."
I can't yell at him for talking to me like that, not when he's just found out the world thinks he's dead - including the one person he cares about. Well, at least we're safe from the police.
Gerard slumps at the kitchen table, one hand holding his head beneath his chin, staring mournfully into space. I wonder what it's like to truly care about someone; I can barely remember my parents - just flashes, really. My mom's smile as I wave at her from the school gates. Watching my dad flipping a pancake out the window. Nostalgia. Together, they laughed; they were ridiculously happy. I miss coming home to a family after a long day, and a voice to pull me from my nightmares.
I barely remember them because I blocked out the day they died from my head. It was easier to pretend to function that way, to lessen the damage by closing my eyes and letting it drift away. When they were here, I couldn't imagine a world without them but now I can hardly remember that feeling at all. It was a response derived from surely undiagnosed PTSD.
So seeing Gerard with the same longing in his eyes that I have, I know I have to do something about it.
"What's Mikey's number?" My hands find their way to the table in the kitchen, flat against the wood.
Gerard looks pleadingly at me. "Frank, whatever you're thinking of doing, please leave him out of it."
"Gee, I'm not asking again."
It's not like I can do anything - the boy is almost a thousand miles away. But Gerard only shakes his head and trembles angrily beneath me. "Do it to me. I don't care what it is, just don't do it to him!"
Why does he think I'm going to do anything? I can't. I'm already taking a huge risk by doing this, knowing the call will be traced. If I'm quick enough, I hope it could go unnoticed.
"Gerard, I'm not going to lay a finger on him."
He still appears nervous and reluctantly recites his brother's number by heart. I type it into my phone and press 'call', turning on speaker phone and sliding it into the middle so we can both hear and speak. Gerard shoots up from his seat and holds a hand over his mouth.
Mikey answers. "H-Hello?" He's been crying.
I nod at Gerard who looks petrified. He exhales and his voice cracks when he talks. "Mikey, it's me."
Mikey pauses on the other end then starts sobbing. "Oh God, I'm sorry, I just - it's been so hard."
"I'm here now, okay? I'm safe. You're alright." Gerard cups his hands around the phone as if the thing is his brother and bows his head.
The boy hundreds of miles away is still crying uncontrollably, barely managing to get out a word. "You - you think you're funny? You want to play a joke on me? My whole life is a joke, this isn't adding to that."
"Mikey," Gerard breathes in despair at not being able to comfort him. Tears pool in his eyes. I hate watching him cry - if I had a heart, maybe it would break.
"Why are you calling?" Mikey whispers and sniffles.
Gerard hesitates. "I know it's been difficult, Mikes—"
"Who is this?"
Even I freeze as Gerard pulls back and stammers out, "But - but what do you mean? Mikey, I - it's me—"
"Look, if you're going to call me, at least say something! Surely that makes a more effective prank call, doesn't it? I'm sorry if my breakdown makes it hard for you; my brother's... gone." Mikey speaks as if he can't hear a voice on our end.
He couldn't - he can't - hear us.
"I'm here!" Gerard cries in desperation. "Why can't you hear me? I'm here! I'M HERE!"
"Is anyone even there?"
"Yes! Mikey, I'm here, I promise!" The tears escape Gerard's eyes and flow freely down his cheeks.
"I guess not... I'm hanging up." Mikey sighs.
"Please don't go Mikes, I need you," Gerard whispers and he chokes out a heart-wrenching sob when the beep goes off to indicate the call has ended. It was a hardly a few seconds we had and it changed everything.
He moves away from the phone as if it's a ticking bomb, backing away into the counters and hitting the back of his head, clutching his chest and struggling to breathe. "He seriously thinks I'm dead, he didn't—" Then he completely loses it, sliding down to the floor and screaming his brother's name in anguish.
I don't understand what happened. How could Mikey not hear us? The signal out here isn't awful and there was no interference on the other end of the line. Gerard was shouting into the receiver.
I pocket my phone and say coldly to Gerard, "It's not the end of the world. He's going to be fine without you."
Gerard shakes his head and scrapes his hands through his hair. "He's not okay, Frank. He's not okay!" I can tell he wants to scream again. My ears are ringing. "I'm not okay!" Suddenly he gets to his feet and walks up to me, shoving me on the chest. "It's your fault! You took me away from him! YOU RUINED EVERYTHING! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!"
For some reason, I let him abuse me. He punches my chest, beats on my torso, kicks my shins, even slaps me though not nearly as hard as I hit him. It hurts a little but I suppose I deserve it. I don't have the strength to stop him.
"See what you've done to him?" Another weak attempt at a shove. "How dare you say he's going to be fine? There is nothing fine about this! You completely destroyed our lives!"
After a while, he loses energy and his abuse becomes weaker. Noticing that he hasn't done any real damage and that I'm still standing, he backs away in defeat and stares at his feet. His lower lip trembles and his breathing is erratic.
"I just miss him." He croaks. "I'm sorry."
I meant what I said, though - it isn't the end of the world. People move on and accept that the ones they love aren't coming back. I know a thing or two about that.
"Are you going to kill me already?" Gerard cries.
It's like speaking to a child sometimes - rather repetitive. "It's fine. Gee, it's okay." Mikey is strong, I'll give him some credit; I truly believe he'll get through this. Drowning out Gerard's sniffles, I give the room a sweep with my eyes. "God, Ray is never here; always out on his damn walks or wherever the hell he goes. And just because I'm feeling reckless today, what do you say we go out somewhere?"
"Out?" Gerard echoes incredulously. Am I not worried someone will recognise them, even if they are assumed dead? "Where?"
"I'm craving those fruits that are kinda like oranges..." I trail off. We can use our new clothes creatively, wrap scarves around our faces for disguise. I don't know how I trust him enough to be able to do this.
"Clementines?" Gerard suggests.
"Yes." I snap my fingers in approval. "God knows there's none around here. We've gotta go to the nearest market and buy - uh, steal some."
"Can you push me in the shopping cart?" Gerard manages a grin, finally over the weird phone call. "I always wanted to do that. My mom and dad never let me..."
"And we can get those smiling potato things for dinner." I recall my childhood with a small smile of my own.
"I'm ready." Gerard jumps up from his seat at the table and grabs a coat from near the front door. He hesitates then, staring at his feet. "I don't understand this," he mumbles.
"Understand what?" I dig my keys out from my pocket.
"I... I like you," Gerard realises in semi-horror, but mostly he appears confused and a little ecstatic. "I'm not supposed to. You do bad things and sometimes I hate you so, so much but... in times like these, I like you."
"It's called Stockholm Syndrome, Gee." I exhale, awaiting more questions as we leave the house and head for the police car.
Gerard slides into the passenger seat. I make sure to lock the doors when we're both inside. "Stockholm Syndrome?" Gerard wonders as I turn on the ignition and begin to drive.
"It's when you feel affection for the person who kidnapped you," I explain reluctantly, "it's completely irrational. Sometimes the human brain can work in strange ways - we latch onto the company we have, even if it's negative. I'm the only one you've got right now in your life, and you're scared - you think I'm going to hurt you and you'd do anything to avoid that, even if it means trying to get on my good side. Eventually your brain confuses these survival instincts with real sympathy and trust for the villain. It's a complex strategy."
"I don't understand." Gerard frowns.
"You subconsciously see me as a sort of twisted God." The corners of my mouth turn down into an awkward grimace. "I'm your provider. I give you small things in life - food, care, attention; basic things you need. You regress into a childlike way of thinking - like you need permission to do everything like a kid being punished. I'm the one that gives you the permission to live."
"What about you?" asks Gerard, quickly changing the subject. "What do you feel?"
"You make it hard for me," I mutter, "to put a gun to your head. There's nothing we can do but get to know each other."
Gerard feels sorry for me, and if that isn't the most messed up thing he's ever thought in his miserable life, he doesn't know what is.
"There's a lot of songs called Stockholm Syndrome," says Gerard, "like that blink-182 one, or Muse, or One Direction." He pulls a face at the last name, clearly not a fan.
"Maybe you should write one." I scoff. The conversation is starting to freak me out. Gerard blushes and remains quiet for the rest of the journey.
The nearest town has a large supermarket. I supply Gerard with sunglasses and nick a beanie from a nearby stall for him too. I pull my own jacket further over my face, throwing the hood over my dark hair. It's not great but I don't care enough to do better. Let them chase this lead if they wish.
"Look," Gerard says excitedly, pointing at an abandoned shopping cart in one of the aisles. It's big enough for one person to sit in it, even if it isn't designed for it.
"Go on then." I snicker, feeling like a parent letting their kid on the slide at a park. Gerard clambers into the cart, his fingers hooked around the metal bars at the front.
I push him slowly at first, stopping every once in a while to collect some food and whatnot that I want. I wonder if Ray steals too in fear of being recognised, or if he's moved past that and pays for it. It's been a while, of course, since he skipped town. I find clementines and the potato snacks my parents used to cook me for dinner and put them in the cart.
Once we've filled up the cart with all we can manage, minding Gerard is taking up most of the room, I start to run. Gerard squeals in surprise, holding onto the sides of the cart and laughing. I run down the aisles with a grin on my face, hair blowing behind me, totally carefree. It's oddly fun.
"Stop!" Gerard gasps for air between his bursts of laughter. "Frank, we're gonna crash!"
I stop then, giving Gerard time to regain his breath. Then I narrow my eyes, acquiring a target across the aisle with a devilish smirk. "Preparing for lift off in five, four..."
"Frank, no," Gerard warns me.
"Three, two, one..." I keep my eyes on the enormous stack of canned beans in front of us as I start to move. "Here goes!"
"No!" Gerard shrieks as I speed straight toward the mountain of food, hitting it perfectly in the centre. The whole thing topples in all directions. I yank the cart back so none of it falls on us. Gerard doubles over with laughter.
"You idiot!" He cries. "We need to leave - surely someone saw that."
"The whole goddamn store saw that, Gerard." I snicker, pushing the cart back toward the entrance with haste. There are security guards running around hopelessly inside like headless chickens, trying to find the culprits.
I find the car and open the trunk, throwing the groceries into the back. "Come on," I prompt Gerard who climbs out of the cart and helps to transfer them.
We kick the cart away and scramble to get in the car. Having just shoplifted what must amount to hundreds of dollars worth of crappy food (and being wanted by the police, although not to the general public anymore, it seems), we're quick to get away. What weirdly matters to me is the smile that remains on Gerard's face.